


Little Brother

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Category: 13th Warrior (1999)
Genre: Comrades in Arms, Drama, Goodbyes, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-08-29
Updated: 1999-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 15:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/113835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herger reflects upon Ahmed's departure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Brother

He sails away, my 'little brother,' and I watch him go. On this parting day, he once again looks like a stranger—the proper Arab in his women's silks. It is as if these past few weeks happened not at all or far off in dreams and tales. But I remember. He is still our Ahmed, our thirteenth warrior, our comrade.

My comrade.

I think back to the first time I cast eyes upon him and the uneasy, hungry stirring in the pit of my stomach. A glimmer of recognition, perhaps, or the hope of it. The treacherous thoughts it brought were cast aside with able half-truths: Ahmed looked like no man in those soft robes, his face unbearded, and his skin oiled, and his eyes lined. I'd had too much to drink. In hindsight, I might have gone so far as to claim a touch of the Sight alerting me that this stranger might come to mean something to us all.

Yet all those fine excuses are nothing now. I have seen Ahmed covered in the blood of battle, unwashed and unshaven, as undeniably male as a red buck. I have sat with him, painfully sober, and still...

And still...

I find I miss him.

I miss him, and I cannot help but wish that I'd had the warrior's courage to do, to say, to merely think...something that even I cannot yet put into words.

But he is gone now, and although I have a hero's status in the village, I can think of nothing but whether he will think of me. When he sits down in his golden palace to tell the tale of Buliwyf, what will he say of Herger? Will he remember that I was there by his side, that I lay next to him as we awaited the Eaters of the Dead? Will he remember my hand on his chest as he awoke from his nightmare or in some dreaming corner of his mind know that I soothed him as he thrashed with sleep terrors? Or will he choose to forget?

No, he is braver than that, and so am I. And I cannot help but think that the Arabs' ways are far different from our own, and wonder if perhaps, in that strange place, the camaraderie between brothers-in-arms extends beyond a fireside grope when women are few.

He kissed his hand before bidding me farewell. For all I know, it is no more than a common salute among his people. But perhaps it is not.

I have fame enough here and a small fortune from the king. With no one to follow now, I might even receive a ship's commission. With my reputation, I could gather a fair-sized retinue for a voyage.

Perhaps a journey to the desert lands...

There is nothing wrong with wanting to see a comrade, and if pressed, I might say that the emissary's people should learn as he did how real warriors live. It needn't be admitted that I already yearn to look upon him once more.

...besides, I find myself with an opinion or two on how Buliwyf's story ought to be drawn.


End file.
